


Hot Coffee, Cold Morning

by Duck_Life



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Autistic Bodhi Rook, By Canon Compliant I Mean No Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Flirting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 16:20:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9192299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life
Summary: Bodhi keeps asking him out until he gets it right.





	

As they speed away, the ruins of Jedha City far behind them, Bodhi walks on shaky feet toward Cassian. “I’m the pilot,” he says, and he holds a pinky finger out to Cassian, who just looks at it. “I’m the pilot.”

“You said that.”

“Right right right,” Bodhi says, fidgeting with the goggles on top of his head. “Sorry. Sometimes I repeat myself. Echoes. I call them echoes. I’m the pilot.”

Cassian nods, looking at the man he just scraped oblivion for. “You’re the pilot.”

On Eadu, swathed in a poncho and surrounded by rain, Bodhi hops over rocks and skirts around corners as he follows Cassian up to the point. They’ve almost reached it when he miscalculates a step and trips.

Fortunately, Cassian lurches forward to catch him, and Bodhi’s not sure if his sudden lack of breath has to do with the fall or those damn dark eyes of the captain’s. He could get lost in those, completely marooned. And that’s saying something, because he’s a damn good navigator.

“Have caf with me?”

“What?” A little surprised, Cassian forgets he’s holding the other man up and lets go. Fortunately, Bodhi regains his footing.

 “Have caf with me?” Bodhi’s not sure where it came from but it’s sure as hell not getting taken back now.

Cassian blinks. “Is that another one of your echoes or are you actually asking?”

“Depends on your answer.”

It’s the smoothest he’s ever been in his life, and he’s not even sure if Cassian can hear him over the rain. Even if he did, Bodhi doesn’t get an answer. Cassian spots the Imperials over the ridge and hurries to the lookout point, leaving Bodhi alone in the rain.

The rebel base is full of people running and rushing and racing back and forth, talking and talking and talking. Bodhi finds refuge wedged into a corner with a view of the ships in the hangar and the door Cassian’s going to walk out of any moment.

When he finally does show up, Bodhi immediately perks up— and then perks back down when he sees the expression on Cassian’s face. “Didn’t go well, did it? It didn’t?”

Cassian looks pissed. “We still have the official meeting with the council in an hour,” he says. “But the Senator’s certain they won’t go for it. I can’t say I disagree.” He rubs a hand over his tired face like he can hide from it all— the war, the bureaucracy, the ache.

This time, when Bodhi holds his pinky finger out, Cassian hooks his own around it. When Bodhi’s whole face lights up, Cassian can’t stop the answering smile on his own face. Bodhi says, “Have caf with me?”

But Cassian needs more than caffeine. He needs adrenaline, he needs more time, he needs _hope_. “We have work to do.”

“After?”

Cassian’s grin is like the sun on a snowy day. It’s not bright enough, it’s not warm enough, but there it is. Enough to remind Bodhi that there used to be more than this, more than fear and fighting. “Maybe,” Cassian says.

But he needs to go recruit rebels and Bodhi needs to go speak to the council. Cassian unlinks their fingers and hurries off.

On Scarif, Bodhi fumbles with the comm, panicky fingers skidding and failing to find the right buttons. “Cassian,” he mumbles, even though he hasn’t made the connection yet. “Cassian, Cassian, Cassian.”

“Yes?”

Bodhi jumps, realizing he reached the captain. “Cassian?”

“Bodhi, I’m here,” Cassian says, tinny over the audio. “What is it?”

The shield is still up. The Imperial forces are closing in on the ground and in the sky. They’re losing people left and right and the Death Star plans seem impossibly out of reach. “Have caf with me?”

Cassian found him days ago, sitting traumatized in a cell. When he speaks, it’s with a veneer of calm, like he feels like he needs to walk on eggshells around Bodhi, like he feels like he needs to be supportive.

When he speaks now he’s raw, real. “Okay,” he says, and Bodhi tries to picture him, where he is. He knows the Empire. Nondescript halls, a thousand identical soldiers. And then Cassian, tucked away, hiding the way Bodhi used to. A rebel heart shrouded in an Imperial uniform. “Okay. Let’s have caf. Let’s do it.”

Bodhi holds the comm unit up to his temple, eyes shut like he can imagine Cassian standing in front of him, deep dark eyes and sunlit smile. “We have work to do,” he reminds Cassian.

Cassian knows. He’s doing the work right now. They all are. “After?”

“After,” Bodhi agrees, nodding even though Cassian can’t see him. “After.”

In his very last moment, Bodhi thinks of Galen Erso and the rebellion.

But in his second to last moment, Bodhi thinks of two cups of caf, a smile, a pinky finger latched around his own. Something that could have been a beginning, now ground into dust, dissolved, like sugar in coffee.


End file.
